Vietnam Casualty: A Mother's Grief

Throughout my periods of sadness and trying to pursue a college education after my husband’s untimely death, my children were very patient with me and tried to fill my days with pleasant memories of the past and present. Thank you dear ones for your love and understanding.

I haven’t been getting any mail from the battery. The reason, ’cause I haven’t had the time to go and get it. Everything is okay. It’s getting pretty hot though, in the 100’s.

Have you heard anything from Neff’s mother about when he’s coming home?

I won’t be able to write too much. About once a week. Whenever I get the chance I promise I’ll write. I’m just going to be able to write to you though. So tell Nanny and the others that I’m sorry I can’t write.

I’m still with a grunt company. It’s alright except sometimes it gets a little hairy. I won’t say it’s better than the battery, ‘cause it’s not, not by a long shot. But it’s okay.

It’s still getting shorter and shorter, pretty soon the day will be here for me to go home.

What’s happening back home? How are you feeling now? Are you able to drive? 

I guess the kids are happy they’re out of school now. I just hope you kids help Mommy all you can. 

Have you been sending any packages? 

I don’t think you ought to send too many anymore until I get back in the battery. I must have a lot of mail back at the battery. I haven’t been back there in over a week. I can’t wait to go back and get it.

Me and two others are in the artillery F.O. team. We go out with the company and if we see a lot of ______ we either call artillery in on them or they call in air strikes.

I guess there’s not much more I can say until I read your letters. So take care of yourself and I love and miss all of you very much.

Your son, Dennis.

Needless to say, I was exceedingly happy to receive the letter on June 22nd.  I mention this date because it has great significance on what I am about to relate to you concerning the ensuing twenty days.

A few hours after receiving the letter, the telephone rang.  The voice on the other end of the phone said, “Hello, is this Mrs. Crane, Dennis’ mother?”  “Yes,” I replied, “I’ve been trying to reach you, but I kept getting the wrong telephone number.

This is Dennis’ friend’s father.  I don’t believe you have ever met my son Alfie, but he and Dennis became close friends in Vietnam.”  

I said, “Yes, I have received letters from Dennis mentioning your son’s name.  How is he?”  

“Well, he’s worried about Dennis and he asked me to find out how he is.”  “He’s fine,” I replied.  “I just received a letter from him today.  As usual, he’s more worried about us than himself.”  

“Then you haven’t heard?”  

“Heard what?” I asked.  

“Your son” he hemmed and hawed as if he didn’t know what to say, but he continued.  “Your son, er, maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this over the phone.”  

“Tell me what?”  I asked, getting very emotional, thinking something was wrong.  

“Your son,” he repeated, “was wounded in the stomach in Vietnam and my son, Alfie, heard it over the communications radio set because he was the operator at the battery at the time.”  

I was in a state of shock, but I immediately tried to control my emotions to be sure I was hearing correctly.  Whatever he said to me during the next few minutes, I don’t remember.  Shouting, I said, “Please hang up, no please give me your telephone number first, I will call you later, after I get in touch with the Casualty Branch in Washington, D.C.”

Having had experience with military personnel records during my years of employment with the Federal Government, I knew exactly which office to contact in Washington, D.C. concerning this dreadful information.  While waiting for the telephone operator to give me the number I requested, the words “your son was wounded” kept going around in my mind.  “What a terrible way to learn your son was wounded,” I thought.  

The operator broke my thought and gave me the number for the United States Marine Corps Casualty Branch.  I called the number and the voice on the other end said “Casualty Branch, Corporal _________ speaking, may I help you?”  In a very loud and hysterical voice, I said, “My son, Dennis Crane, was injured and I was never notified.”  When the Corporal heard my message, he said, “One moment please ma’am.”  Then after a few anxious minutes that seemed like hours, a voice said on the other end “This is Colonel _________, may I help you ma’am?”  “Yes,” I said and blurted out the details of how I received the message that Dennis was wounded and wanted to know why I wasn’t notified by the Marine Corps.  “I’m very sorry about this Mrs. Crane, but I need to know Dennis’ rank, serial number, division, company, and whatever information you can give me,” he said.  “Just a minute, I just received a letter from him today.”  I gave the Colonel the information he needed and told him that Dennis was with a grunt company and not at his battery.  

The Colonel told me he would investigate the inquiry and get back to me as soon as possible.  

After I put the telephone back on the receiver, I thought, “What a dummy, why didn’t you have the information he asked you for ready when you were talking to the Corporal?”  It was 3:00 P.M. when I looked at the clock above the television in the living room.  “What am I going to do, I can’t just sit here and wait,” I thought to myself.  I didn’t want to alarm anyone just in case it was a false alarm.  So, I started to pace the floor waiting for the phone to ring.  Two hours went by, “Should I call them back?  Should I wait a little longer,” I thought.  I was frantic and helpless.  I kept watching the clock.  It was 6:00 P.M.  I needed to make dinner for the children as they would be coming back from the little league baseball game within an hour.  I picked up the phone and dialed the Casualty Branch – I couldn’t get through.  I went about making dinner.  The Children came home, ate, and watched television.  They knew something was wrong because I was acting so strange, pacing up and down, sitting at the telephone table, etc.  I didn’t dare get them upset without getting the verification from the Marine Corps as to Dennis’ injury.

By late evening, I don’t remember the time, I telephoned Washington again.  A corporal answered the phone, but when he heard my name, he immediately said “One moment please Mrs. Crane, Colonel _________ will speak to you.”  When the Colonel got on the phone, he said “Mrs. Crane, I am very sorry, but we do not have your son listed as a casualty; however, we are investigating further the source from which you received the information that your son was wounded.  As soon as we receive more information you will be notified by me or another officer on duty.”

When the children overheard my conversation with the Colonel, they became very upset and wanted to know what had happened.  I had to tell them of the events that occurred earlier in the day.  Then, I thought, “I better notify the rest of the family.”  I called my mother and sister telling them what happened.  They were at my home within fifteen minutes — we lived close to each other.  My family kept assuring me that I would get to the truth of the story since they called me the “Philadelphia Lawyer” of the family.

The comments, back and forth, from everyone was like the “Twenty Questions” guessing game.  It was getting uncontrollable.

At one point, I recalled that a similar instance happened when my husband was wounded in World War II.  He was back in the United States Navy Hospital in California before anyone was notified.  I thought to myself, “Maybe this is what’s happening now.”

All crazy thoughts began to enter my mind.  Is he bleeding and lying in a remote area where he can’t be found?  Was he taken prisoner by the Viet Cong?  Horrible thoughts!  I was frantic.  My family tried to console me by saying that Dennis would be okay.

The phone never rang that evening or the next morning.  I couldn’t sleep.  I had to do something quick and fast.  Calling the Casualty Branch again was out of the question.  I had to give them more time.  I looked over at my sewing machine and saw that I did not finish the slipcovers I was making, so I started sewing and sewing, and sewing through the early morning hours.  It was the only thing fast enough for me to do to release some of the anger from my system wondering why the Casualty Branch was not notified of Dennis’ injury, and why they were taking so long to find out if it was true.

It was 8:00 A.M., June 23rd.  I telephoned the Casualty Branch again, and again I was transferred to a Colonel.  The Colonel was very sympathetic and assured me that an intense investigation was in pursuit and as soon as they heard anything, they would notify me no matter what time of day or night.  I felt the anger rise, and again the weird thoughts came into my mind.  What especially disturbed me was the fact that his buddy knew he was wounded as soon as it happened, and none of the military authorities reported it.

When the children awakened, the first thing on their minds was to ask me if I had heard anything.  The same with other family and friends.  The phone calls came one after another.  I had to tell everyone I couldn’t talk because I wanted to keep the line open in case Washington called.

The next six days were a nightmare.  No news from Washington; and whenever I called the Casualty Branch (at least two or three times a day), I would hear the same remark – “The report of the injury is still UNCONFIRMED.  We will telephone you as soon as we can CONFIRM it.”  Each of these days was filled with anxiety, hate, and terrible anger.  I was so anxious to hear something that I listened to anyone who gave me any kind of story about what may have happened to Dennis.

“Doug,” I would say to myself “how I wish you were here.  You would be able to get to the truth of this with all the friends you had in Washington.”  My husband, Douglas, was a financial advisor for the Missile Command in the budget area and knew many influential people in Washington.  He passed away in 1962, leaving me to raise our five children from 3 years to 12 years old.  That time of my life was also tragic.  I never dreamed my husband would die before me.  I was always the one who had to have surgeries, etc.  He was always so healthy.  Little did we know that he would have a coronary and die.

During one of these tearful days, I telephoned the recruiting sergeant who enlisted Dennis into the Marine Corps.  He had been extremely helpful to me while Dennis was in boot camp, jungle training, and during the times I hadn’t heard from Dennis for weeks at a time.  He would console me and explain to me that the mail was hard to get through; that it was picked up by helicopter and dropped to the men in the field when they were fighting and mail was unable to be distributed normally.  He was also very helpful to me during my hospitalizations.  One time, I hadn’t heard from Dennis for three weeks.  During those three weeks, unknown to me at the time, I was becoming very “up-tight” so the expression goes.

For nine days and nights, I couldn’t eat, drink or sleep properly.  I began to have severe pains in my chest.  After a few days of this, I decided to go to the emergency room at the hospital.  I thought I was having a heart attack or some other malady.  After all the tests, the condition proved to be a severe case of nerves which tightened up my digestive system.  

Thinking about this while waiting for the sergeant to answer the telephone, I reminded myself not to let it happen again.  I had to compose myself.

When I told the sergeant what happened to Dennis and the events of the last several days, he said he would try to help by contacting the Casualty Branch himself to see if he could obtain some information for me.  The sergeant never got back to me that day.

During these days of waiting, I contacted everyone in the military or Federal Government I knew who could try to check with the Casualty Branch to determine the delay.  The stories were unbelievable: down in a remote area and can’t be found, taken prisoner, in a mortuary far from any military base, etc.

On the morning of the 30th of June, once again I telephoned the Casualty Branch – still no confirmation.  I decided that I would take a trip to Washington and stay there until I was satisfied everything possible was being done to locate my son.  Just as I started to make arrangements for someone to care for the children while I was away, the telephone rang.  

“This is Major __________, Commandant of the United States Marine Reserve Training Center in Trenton, N.J.  Are you Mrs. Crane, mother of Dennis Crane?”  “Yes,” I replied.  

He went on to say, “I received a message from Washington, D.C. concerning your son, Dennis.”  

I told him, “I just got off the phone with the Casualty Branch and they didn’t have any information for me.  How did you get information from them when I couldn’t?”  

The Major said, “Mrs. Crane I just received the message a few minutes ago.”  “If they knew something when I telephoned them, why couldn’t they tell me?”  

Now that I think about it, the Major was very patient with me.  

“Mrs. Crane, could I please see you this afternoon?” asked the Major.  

I said “Yes” and before I could say anything else, he hung up the phone. 

I called him right back because I couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Dennis.  A Sergeant answered the phone and told me the Major would be at my home at 1:00 P.M.  It was 11:30 A.M.

The children were home from going to Mass, praying for Dennis. They ate lunch and went out to play. The youngest was ten and the oldest was fifteen. My daughter, Colleen, was on the telephone talking to my sister Dolores. An olive-drab-green colored car pulled up to the front of the house. A Master Sergeant, a Major, and a priest got out of the car and walked up to the front door. I was looking through the window and knew immediately what to expect.

The front doorbell rang. One of the children ran to open the door. I yelled, “Don’t let them in.” I was hysterical and didn’t want to hear what they had to say. It was too late. The priest and the Major were in the house. They tried to read the telegram to me, which, later I learned was mandatory. I wouldn’t listen. I held my hands to my ears and was screaming, “No, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear it.” Someone had to get control of the situation, so the Master Sergeant took hold of me and led me into the living room, the children following. He sat me down in a chair and tried to calm me down. 

The priest, now that I think of it, just didn’t know what to say to me, since this was the first time he played a part in a mission of this nature. By this time, my mother and sister were in the house, trying to clean up the mess made at lunchtime. They tried to console the children and me, but it was very hard to comprehend why Dennis was taken away from me. The children loved Dennis, their big brother, so much, they kept on crying and crying. All I could think of – my best friend, my father, was taken away from me; then, my husband, my lover – now my flesh and blood, my son.

A few hours later, a young priest from the parish came to visit the children and me. He was new to the parish, but the children knew him and they started to talk to him immediately. He helped the children to understand the situation. Father Ron wanted to know if I had thought of funeral arrangements. Up until that moment, I did not.

When I officially received the news about Dennis, I didn’t hear what the master Sergeant said concerning the burial services. I called the Training Station in Trenton, N.J. to find out, but he wasn’t available. 

“May I have the Sergeant call you back ma’am?” the voice asked. 

“Maybe you can give me the information I want to know. This is Mrs. Crane, Dennis Crane’s mother. He was killed in Vietnam and I want to know what arrangements I should make concerning the burial service?” “I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to wait for the Sergeant to return. He’ll give you that information when he calls you,” the voice said. 

Another “wait” situation.

Well, we waited and waited. In the meantime, the children had gone outdoors with their friends telling them what happened. The house became full of neighbors and friends wanting to know what they could do to help me. Of course, nothing could be done, since I still didn’t know what I had to do.

Finally, the Major, not the Sergeant, returned my phone call. I’m still very vague in my memory as to what was told to me that day. I only remember the words of the Major saying,

“I will notify you of the burial plans as soon as I hear from Washington that they have located Dennis’ body.” Maybe he said “remains,” I don’t know. All I know or all I can remember is that this message sent me into a state of frenzy. 

“What do you mean by that?” I asked. 

The Major went on to explain that although Dennis’s death is confirmed, they haven’t located his body yet.” 

“How can they be; how can they know he is dead if they haven’t seen his body?” I asked, in a screaming voice. 

The major said “I haven’t received all the details as of yet, Mrs. Crane. As soon as I do, I will call you. Please wait for my call.” 

In a fit of anger, I put the telephone on the receiver and started to yell at the top of my voice: “Would you believe, now they can’t locate Dennis’ body!” 

Friends and family that were in the house couldn’t believe this new twist in my already frantic situation. 

“What do I do now?” I thought. “Why did they tell me he was killed if they didn’t have his body? What is this, a big hoax, a dream, a nightmare, what? I have to do something, call someone; I can’t sit here waiting.” 

These were my thoughts.

One of my brothers-in-law worked for the Navy Department in Washington, D.C., so I telephoned him, explaining this new turn of events. I asked him to check with the Casualty Branch in person or with anyone who could shed some light on the situation. He checked with several offices and people inquiring as to what may have happened. He telephoned me the next day (July 1rst) telling me that he questioned some people he knew familiar with casualty cases in the military and this is the information he received: 

“Sometimes, when a man is killed and in a remote area, the local undertaker takes him and holds him until the military authorities can be notified or he was found and buried immediately without notifying the military authorities.”

Can you imagine the state of anguish my family and I were in? I couldn’t help but think that Dennis may still be alive somewhere and that they would call me and tell me it was all a big mistake. This thought kept me going for a few days.

Although I kept thinking it might be a mistake, I had to face reality and do something while I was waiting for the military to learn Dennis’ whereabouts. The sewing machine was still open and the slipcovers were not finished, so I had sat down once more to try to finish them.

Again, more phone calls. This time, to the Major in Trenton, every day for another week. During this week, as friends, relatives, and even strangers heard the news about Dennis, they telephoned asking about the funeral. Of course, I couldn’t tell them anything, because I didn’t know. There had been another Vietnam Casualty in town, but that boy’s mother was notified without incident. She couldn’t believe what was happening in Dennis’ case.

The Church fair was in progress and the children, God bless them for their innocence and ability to carry on, went to this annual event. Of course, they were approached by many children and adults questioning them and wanting to know if there was any news about Dennis.

One evening, I believe it was July 6th, my sister begged me to go to the fair. I did. It was a good experience because I was able to talk to many friends and sort of release some anguish I was experiencing.

The next day, July 7th, the Major telephoned me and said Dennis was located and would be flown from Vietnam to Dover, Delaware, with a military escort on a special flight. At Dover, Dennis would be prepared for burial and immediately shipped by special hearse, with a military escort, on a Sunday (which was never done) to the funeral home. All these “specials” – who cared!—I wanted to see my son again. I asked the major why it took so long to locate Dennis. He said there were so many thousands of casualties that it took time to locate him. Of course, I couldn’t “buy” that answer, and immediately told him so.

On July 10th, the funeral director called me to tell me that Dennis had arrived at the funeral home. While I was getting dressed and waiting for the funeral director to pick me up, I reflected on the events of the day that I officially heard that Dennis was killed. I remembered that after reading the telegram a few days later, it gave the date of Dennis’ death as June 15, 1968. I immediately searched for the letter I received from Dennis on June 22nd and looked for the date – it was June 16, 1968. The dates were different! 

I said to myself “How could he have written to me on the 16th when they said he was killed on the 15th? The possibility of mistaken identification could exist — could this be so?” I thought. I was shaking, thinking that maybe Dennis was still alive, and now I have to identify a body that was not him.

When I arrived at the funeral home, I looked at the body in the domed, clear-covered casket and couldn’t positively say it was Dennis. I kept looking at him and crying when his Marine Corporal escort said to me “Mrs. Crane, are you ready to make a positive identification?” I told him I thought it was Dennis, but he was so swollen, I had to make sure. Then, I thought of a picture he sent me from Vietnam where he was bending down and looking through his legs. If I turned that picture upside down, it looked just like him in the casket. I told this to the Corporal and he told me that sometimes the face is swollen because the body was not prepared immediately after death. I felt sure now that it was Dennis.

Then I thought of the difference in dates. I asked Corporeal about it, and he said the time is different in Vietnam. It was a day later in that part of the country than in the United States. I wondered why I didn’t think of that, but then, I was so engrossed in hoping this was all a mistake, it never entered my mind that the time was different.

The funeral took place on July 12, 1968. 

There were so very many cars and people for a mile or more. The police had to escort the procession through the towns until we arrived at the Church. The Monsignor at Immaculate Conception Church decided to have a non-denominational Mass for the ministers, priests, and people of all faiths to attend. I never realized how widely the news was spread, until this day.

The Veterans of Foreign Wars provided an “after the funeral” luncheon for nearly 200 people. Dennis was an honorary member of the VFW and I was a member of the Auxiliary through my husband, Douglas, who was in the Marine Corps in World War II. Dennis’ honorary status came about when he was in Vietnam and I asked if he could be a member.

Part 2

Several weeks after the funeral, I received a letter from the Chaplain who gave Dennis his last rites of the Church. In the letter, he explained to me that Dennis was flown to the U. S. S. Repose Hospital Ship immediately after he was wounded. Dennis died ten hours after he arrived aboard the ship.

Because of the unusual circumstances surrounding the battle of An Hoa and the company being cut off from the rear, no one knew that Dennis was airlifted by helicopter to the hospital ship. While aiding the wounded into the helicopter, Dennis was shot in the stomach, so he was pulled aboard too. The whole incident surrounding Dennis’ demise was due to a lack of communication. Whoever was immediately involved in this incident thought it was reported.

During the next few weeks, I kept getting mail from the Senators of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and even Delaware. Then one afternoon, I received a letter from the U.S. Navy Department telling me of Dennis’ death. The bottom of the letter indicated there were several enclosures included in a copy of one of the letters in which a “presidential inquiry” took place and those military personnel at the skirmish were interrogated.

I immediately wrote to the Judge Advocate General’s office of the United States Navy, in Washington, D.C., requesting copies of the enclosures. After several weeks, I received the requested correspondence. After thoroughly going over the contents of the reports given by those military personnel interrogated, I discovered the original reason given for my son’s death was inaccurate.

My son didn’t die of “friendly fire” from the helicopter’s gunner. He was shot by the enemy. The testimony of the Corpsman who dressed his wounds corroborated the fact it was “AK” wound. (AK meaning the ammunition and type of wound came from a North Vietnamese Army Rifle.)

Dennis’ last letter to me was dated June 15, 1968. It must have been written just before the battle. When he was medivacked to the hospital ship, the letter was taken out of his shirt pocket and mailed.

From the investigation, I learned that on the morning of June 15, 1968, the Company officers were briefed on the situation at hand in the compound. The Company was in An Hoa, Province of Quang Nam. “Danger Close” was the order for the day. The artillery rounds were pouring into the area. They were surrounded by the enemy. The fourth “fire-for-effect” round killed four company officers and wounded the last officer.

The last officer, a U.S. Navy Lieutenant, immediately, along with my son, started to regroup the company and aid the wounded aboard the first “medevac”. When the second “medevac: was approaching the landing zone, the operator on the ground yelled, “Get out, Get out, you’re in the wrong place!” The radio was jammed along with the voice of the ground operator.

The pilot of the helicopter ordered a “ceasefire”, but the gunner on the left side of the helicopter did not hear him. It was his 122nd mission. The gunner thought, from all the static on the radio that they were in Viet Cong territory and when he saw two figures in the high grass, and enemy fire from the other side, he thought they were North Vietnamese Army personnel. The gunner opened fire and found out too late the two figures were the last officer and Dennis.

The officer was killed and Dennis was wounded. After finding out about the “AK” wound, I wrote to the Judge Advocate General’s office again making them aware of this part of the investigation. A few months later, I received notification that the JAG casualty offices were changing Dennis’ death certification from “wound due to friendly fire, non-combat” to “wounds received in combat.”

One day, in March or April of 1969, I was called into the office of the president of the company where I worked for a conference. Much to my surprise, a Major from the United States Marine Corps was sitting in the office. When I entered, the Major immediately stood up, shook my hand, and explained that he was presenting me with my son’s new death certificate and the Purple Heart.

After so very many months of writing back and forth to the JAG office in Washington, D.C., it was a great day to know the investigation was finalized and the period of anxiety was over, or so I thought. Even after things quieted down and everything was back to normal, I was still questioning the Good Lord as to why Dennis was taken from me at such a young age.

Part 3

Dennis was kept alive in our hearts and memories. It was and still is a good feeling to know the “hurt” is gone and heartwarming feelings are alive.

In October 1972, Disney World opened in Orlando, Florida. I just sold our home in New Jersey and being in real estate, it was easy for me to take an extended vacation. Not known at the time, but it was a turning point in my life.

Colleen, my older daughter was in college, and Diane, my middle daughter, was married, so Janice, Bryan, and I decided to spend Christmas in Florida. We had a wonderful time, so much so, that I asked the children if they wanted to move to Florida. We all felt that the change would be what we needed.

Before I left Florida, I rented a townhouse and obtained a Florida driver’s license, in preparation for returning in January. When Janice and Bryan completed their mid-term exams, we moved to Satellite Beach, Florida.

Knowing that I could get reinstated to the Federal Civil Service, I placed my name on the Civil Service Availability list. For the next five months, I worked as a waitress until a civil job opportunity to my liking opened up.

Have you ever wondered how events in your life may unfold to unexpectedly to lead you to a better future? 

Such was the case in my life.

In May 1973, I received a telephone call from the Civilian Personnel Director at Patrick Air Force Base suggesting I make an appointment for a job interview. I met with the Director and he stated that my employment history met the criteria needed to fulfill the position he had in mind. He told me the position was only temporary; however, by the time the project was completed, there would probably be a permanent opening. He went on to explain that the position required the expertise of an administrative assistant, who would be working with the returned Vietnam Prisoners of War. 

As soon as I heard this statement, I knew I would accept, since, unknowingly, I have been waiting for such an opportunity to better understand what Dennis went through and why he died.

Speaking of “golden opportunities”, this was it. Before the offer could be finalized, I had to be interviewed by Colonel Lawrence Guarino, the Officer-in-Charge of Administration of the 4th Allied Prisoner of War Wing. 

During my interview with Colonel Guarino, he said he needed to know the answer to one question: 

“Would you have any ill feelings working with returned prisoner-of-war since Dennis was killed in Vietnam?” 

I told him emphatically that it would be most beneficial to him and me since we both needed each other. I had the administrative capability to do the job and the job could help me better understand why Dennis had to die.

The interview went very well. A few days later, I was asked to report to the Civilian Personnel Office at Patrick Air Force Base for processing. This was the most important, most rewarding and the most historical position ever to be held by a civilian, since there would never, ever be one like it again in the history of the United States. 

My friends and family were very interested in what I would be doing on the job. I relayed it as it was explained to me… I would be assisting the officer-in-charge of the 4th Allied Prisoner of War (POW) Wing preparing recommendations for awards and decorations for the Vietnam POWs who returned and who were deceased. Another wave of excitement arose. They were willing to help in any way possible. The returnees were in the local and national news almost every day and my children listened intently, getting to know more about the returnees than I did. We just couldn’t believe it, I was the one person in the world, in the right place at the right time, to be needed for this project. This was the “once in a lifetime” position people only dreamed of achieving in their careers.

Afterward

Part III is where my grandmother left off, though there are many poems and other writings about the event which we also will share. She was in the process of collecting her thoughts and getting information together to go into further detail about the exciting work with the POWs that she was able to be part of. She always spoke very enthusiastically about this time in her life. Her role was essentially to collect data and document the POWs experiences… this involved direct interviews, which she would record.

I first read this text when I was visiting her from N.J., my grandmother was ill with cancer at this time. The memoir brought me to tears knowing the suffering she had endured, a woman who I had always known to be full of joy. The depths of her sorrows with the untimely death of her husband, having to care for five children thereafter, and then for her oldest son to die in war, are more than most can bear. Having gone through a life with such burdens, she became quite an amazing individual: in her wisdom, her empathy for others, and the pleasure it was to be in her company.

After reading the text I didn’t want it to be over. She was curious about my opinion, and at the time I suggested that she also write about her experiences with interviewing the POWs. I don’t believe it was her original intention to continue with this additional writing, but after realizing she met with great men like John McCain and heard their stories first hand… it seemed a worthwhile addition. Thinking back, although it truly was an extraordinary job for her and a unique perspective in history, what I truly wanted was for her to continue and not necessarily the text… I jsut wanted my grandmother to remain in this world shining brightly for her family as she always did. 

I left her home that day with the idea that we would reconvene and I would help her write the next chapters. That was the last time I spent with her while she was fully coherent.

The following months she was hospitalized and the cancer, which had gone in and out of remission, had spread dramatically. I video-conferenced briefly with her before I left to be at her side… I remember her glowing smile despite all the pain. My family and I drove to Florida and when I arrived at the hospital, hospice was already involved and she was no longer conscious. I just remember telling her on her death bed that her writing was already complete, because it was. As the title indicates, she expressed “A Mother’s Grief;” she told the story of what it’s like to have “your flesh and blood” be taken away from you by war.

Most of the stories on Vietnam I have heard always centered on the soldier: their experience and trials either in POW camps, in the jungles, or coming home and struggling in the country they fought for. My grandmother’s Vietnam story is about a different kind of suffering—one that may not be seen in movies but is just as powerful and heroic. To me, she is an unsung hero who endured tremendous loss and found the will and strength to move on and learn from the tragedy, continue to raise a family as a single mom, and take part in a historic project which opened up some very difficult emotions inside her. I think of her story and I think of all the mothers across the world. I think of the grief all moms have in common when their loved ones go away to fight—the “not-knowing” if they are injured, or if they are dead or alive. I like to think the love between a mother and child is so much more powerful than all the trivialities, false beliefs, and convictions that lead us to war. 

I hope my grandmother’s story inspires people to hold this love sacred, and that no matter which country a soldier fights for, they all have in common a mother’s grief and a mother’s love. Let Florence Crane’s story remind us of the immense suffering brought on by conflict, and pray that one day the world finds a way for our mother’s love to shine through all the afflictions that bring us to war.

—Andrew Oresto